


Fire Next Time

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Daddy Issues, F/M, Gen, General issues, M/M, Misogyny, Sexuality Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:43:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tybalt grows up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire Next Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/gifts).



> With thanks to Morgan for the beta. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Note that the story contains a (fairly non-explicit) sexual encounter between two teenagers.

i.

The Capulet gardens were vast, neglected in part, rich in bushes and silvery pools and trees older than Verona. He would go there, sometimes, with Julia and Nurse, on warm days when he had been dismissed from his lessons and the afternoon stretched out before them, free of worries.

Away from the mansion, amidst crumbling old statues and untended flowerbeds, they could play. Not as roughly as he would with his friend the prince's nephew, but battles were still fought and won, most often by Julia, who would straddle the fallen Montague in triumph, her smile so bright and her cheeks so red that Tybalt could not have regretted letting her defeat him, even were he inclined to. Other games were calmer, involving Julia's doll, makeshift furniture of pebble and straw, cakes baked from the moist mud of the pools, and solemn weddings with Nurse alternating as priest and audience. 

Today, Julia would not play: her eighth birthday was only a few days away, and she felt much too old, she said. Tybalt, who was even older, in fact too old to play with little girls, tried to feel relieved. They sat on a bench next to one of the pools, Nurse beside them—she was tilting her face towards the sun, her hands still on her broidery; she was falling asleep, as adults were wont to do on warm afternoons. Julia was fiddling with a ribbon on her dress, her small face scrunched up in thought. "I like those roses," she said after a while.

Tybalt followed her gaze towards the rosebush some twenty yards away. "Do you want one?"

Julia smiled and ducked her head. "Thank you, kind sir," she said with a giggle. So she did want to play after all.

He selected a large rose and broke off the stem; his skin caught on a thorn and it hurt a bit, but he did not mind. Carrying it back to Julia, he gave a stiff bow and held out the flower in front of him. "My lady," he said, noting how awkward the words sounded in his mouth.

She accepted it with grace, turning it over in her hands. Then her eyes widened. "Oh!"

A spider—a huge, black thing—was crawling out from between the petals. The sight of its spindly legs and hairy body against the red perfection of the rose was strangely revolting. At once Tybalt snatched the flower from her hands and, stepping to the side of the pool, shook out the intruder, watching with satisfaction as the creature hit water, jerky movements slowly stilling.

Turning back, he saw that Julia was staring at him, brows drawn together and her mouth small; she did not look thankful in the least. "You are cruel, Tybalt!" she said, her voice pure accusation.

He stood there, chastised. Somehow he had failed at the game they were playing, without even considering the rules—if there were even rules to be followed. He had intended to give her a beautiful thing, and now she looked at him as if he had hurt her. 

"I suppose so," he finally muttered, trying not to sound angry. It was not her fault, any of it.

 

ii.

Friar Laurence's lessons took place in a small room off the courtyard, where the windows were just too high on the wall to provide easy distraction and the air always smelled like the inside of old books. In summer the room got stuffy and hot, and today was no exception: his cousins were lethargic and brooding, not even bothering to cover their yawns, while pearls of sweat were gleaming on Friar Laurence's brow. Tybalt grimaced at the moisture pooling between his shoulderblades; his body was changing these days, in ways that bothered him more and more.

"Peccatum originale," Friar Laurence said. "As Saint Augustine tells us, the deliberate sin of the first man is the cause of original sin. Tybalt, translate."

He stumbled through the words, tying them together in sentences that made little sense to him but which had Friar Laurence nodding in approval, only occasionally correcting his grammar. It seemed he was learning the rules of the language, if not whatever truths it conveyed. 

Afterwards, Friar Laurence talked about the nature of sin. His words floated by in the heavy air, occasionally drifting into Tybalt's ears, making no more sense than the dusty old Latin had done. What priests called sins, he thought sullenly, fixing his gaze on a spot behind Friar Laurence's shoulder, his father would call virtues. 

Perhaps that was the whole point, that one should wallow in sin and think it virtue, or rather that the act of sinning was a virtue in itself, an inescapable part of manhood. He did not feel virtuous, nor did he feel manly, but he suspected he was just as sinful nonetheless: his body told him so, every night between his clammy sheets, and every so often during the day, when his hands would get twitchy, repulsive and arousing images invading his mind. 

At length the lesson was over. As soon as Friar Laurence gave the word, his cousins jumped up, crowding to escape, all lethargy gone. Tybalt followed more slowly; fencing class was next and his father would be watching. As he passed Friar Laurence, their eyes met. Something strange passed over Friar Laurence's face.

"Tybalt," he said. Tybalt halted, somewhat reluctantly. He had begun going to confession this year, and did not much care for the familiar feeling which crept over him now, that Friar Laurence could see right through him with his sad dog's eyes. 

"You did well today," Friar Laurence said, smiling a little. The praise was as ill-fitting as it was unexpected, and Tybalt very nearly scoffed; he did not need that sort of approval, any more than he deserved it. But Friar Laurence was not a servant, and not to be insulted. He kept still, waiting for whatever other words would come. 

"Sin..." Friar Laurence sighed. "It is not easily grasped," he finally went on, and his tone made Tybalt twitch. It was too soft, too comforting, as if Tybalt were a child in need of coddling, his slow wit the cause of pity. 

Anger flared up in him. It was all he could do not to tremble with it—and now Friar Laurence was watching him as if waiting for some sort of response, some sort of impromptu confession, perhaps. 

Tybalt's nails dug into his palms. "If you say so, Friar Laurence," he said as carefully he could, keeping his spine as straight as a blade. 

"Verona is—" Friar Laurence stopped. He cleared his throat. "I shall see you on Sunday," he finally said, averting his eyes. 

So he had been spared another lecture, Tybalt thought. Very well; it would have done him no good anyway. He suspected the Church did not understand the nature of sin any more than he or his father did. 

 

iii.

"Don't stop now," Mercutio said breathlessly. He was lying on his back, his face flushed. His hair was untidy and his hose down, and his laughter was eager, stuttering. "From our fencing sessions I knew you could hold your own, but I do like the way you are holding mine."

The crack in the wall of the bathhouse behind them stared like an eye narrowed in suspicion. They had been taking turns peeking at the maidservants, each of them with fumbling hands and straining eyes; the spot was secluded, adding to the thrill of secrecy. At some point their hands had touched, jerked away, and touched again—and now they were both on the ground, inflamed by the glimpses of naked legs and breasts, one sin leading to what must undoubtedly be a much greater one. 

Tybalt squirmed. "I should not," he muttered, and yet he touched his friend again. It was a world away from touching himself, more tempting and terrible both. Mercutio's eyes slipped shut and his mouth opened, pale eyelashes fluttering, and Tybalt swallowed against the excitement rising in him, tinged as it was with fear and unease. He moved his hand on Mercutio's smooth hot flesh, not knowing whether he should try to gentle his touches, whether that would make what he was doing more or less wrong. 

"Oh," Mercutio breathed. "Oh, oh, Tybalt—" and there was no laughter in his voice, no jests, no barbs; he sounded naked and young, and the pain between Tybalt's legs grew sharper and sweeter still. His hand moved furiously, Mercutio's hips jerked upwards, and suddenly there was a warm wetness in his fist—Mercutio slumped under him, panting. 

Tybalt stayed where he was, his hand frozen in mid-air for a moment before he wiped it violently on the grass. It occurred to him suddenly that he was behaving like the sluts he had heard of, letting himself be soiled by another's seed. The excitement pounded in him more cruelly than ever at the thought, and he swallowed again, thinking he would be sick. 

But Mercutio had opened his eyes again, his smile as wide and happy as a dog's. "Let me," he said, starting to sit up.

Without thinking, Tybalt recoiled. "No."

"Then kiss me, at least," and Mercutio was scrambling towards him. Before Tybalt could think, his friend's arms were around his neck, his mouth on Tybalt's—and his lips, too, were hot and smooth, his touch was gentle, and Tybalt groaned into the kiss, horrified, as his body wrought its pleasure from him.

When it was over, Mercutio's arms were still around him. He was pressing kisses to Tybalt's face—his mouth, his cheek, his temple—with uncharacteristic softness, as if what they had done was somehow beautiful. 

It was unbearable. "Let me go," Tybalt snarled, tearing himself away. He got to his feet, his damp hose and still-racing heart taunting him. 

Mercutio said nothing. When Tybalt looked down, he was leaning back in a deliberate manner; his hose was still untied and his cheeks still red. 

They stared at each other for a long moment. Then Mercutio's mouth slid into one of his cruel smiles. "So this is who you are, Tybalt of the Capulets," he said. "Your courage is your father's pride, and yet you flee from your own mirror."

Tybalt turned and strode off. Safely in his rooms, he ordered hot water and soap, and he scrubbed his skin raw, and wished he could do the same to his heart and the fury and foulness there. 

Mercutio's pride would keep him away; perhaps he would seek out the Montague whelp, who occasionally had courted his company. It was all for the best, Tybalt knew. He was becoming a man now, and a man should play by men's rules. 

 

iv.

"Tybalt," said Lady Capulet, "come here."

Her eyes met his in the mirror. She was sitting by her dressing table, he was hovering by the door, waiting for her to tell him why he was summoned. "My lady," he said, bowing. A careful polite gesture, of the sort that she and his uncle tried to make him practice each hour of the day. It seemed to please her, for she smiled.

"It has been a year," she said, briefly surprising him. Reaching for a chest on the floor, she looked at him in the mirror again, her eyes gliding over him from head to toe. "He wanted you to have this." 

The weapon glittered sharp and relentless as she pulled it from the sheath, as she held it up in front of her, pale slender fingers closed about the handle, her painted nails like miniature swords.

"Your father's," she said.

He nodded. He knew that.

She ran a finger down the blade, almost lovingly. "It is a very good blade."

Tybalt nodded again. He knew that, too.

"Your father was a brave man," his aunt said. "The vermin got him, but you will make them pay. You are our blade, Tybalt; you are our hope. Do you understand?"

Before he could respond, she turned away from him, abruptly. Sheathing the weapon again, she muttered, as if to herself, "I cannot do anything. I'm an old woman, and I have no sons."

"You have me," Tybalt said. He did not know whether it was what she wanted him to say. It was the truth, nonetheless: he often did not know what to do with the rage inside him. His father's death was a fixed point, the revenge a clearcut goal. "And I will make them pay."

Her smile held the sharpness of knives as her eyes again sought his in the mirror. "I know you will." 

Neither of them moved. The room was hot, a fire blazing in the corner, and his aunt was only wearing a thin gown. Tybalt's gaze strayed from her eyes to her mouth, and then down her throat, to the paleness of her collarbone and chest, to the soft swell of breasts. 

He remembered his father's words, that first time at the brothel: _all women can be bought, albeit for different purposes; some we buy with coin, others with marriage_. His aunt was no different—his uncle had mounted her, taken her, parted her legs in lust, as any man would do to any woman. How strange a thing, that the result of her defilement should be Julia. 

At this thought he shuddered. Julia, who was not yet a woman but who was growing older and more lovely by the day— 

"Tybalt," Lady Capulet said. Her voice was low; whether in invitation or warning, he could not tell. Her skin was soft and smooth, but soon the lines of age would become impossible to hide, a reminder of inevitable decay, of the skull hiding underneath all faces, no matter how fair. He thought of Julia again, and felt the familiar anger, mixed with horror, rising in his throat. 

"Tybalt," she said again, turning towards him and holding out the weapon. "Take it."

As he did as he was bid, he met her eyes again, directly this time, and he wondered if the fire in them mirrored his. 

 

v. 

Lord Paris's expression was far too knowing, his gaze too greedy, and Tybalt had circled him like a jealous hound all evening. _Marriage_ , that was the word which had been used. Marriage, another word for whoredom. Husband, another word for slaver. 

He had managed to engage Paris elsewhere, relieved at the knowledge that at least Julia was safe for the moment. Another man might ask for her hand, Paris had said, but other suitors could be distracted, other suitors could be frightened or tempted away. Still wary and restless but with guarded hope, he had returned to the great hall, where costumed drunkards were still swirling around in pointless patterns, the music insistent, the air hot and stifling.

And then the sight: Julia, his Julia, in the grasp of a stranger, greedy hands against the red of her dress and the softness of her hair, greedy mouth on her sweet young face.

Nausea had welled up in Tybalt; anger had seized him, wild and uncontrollable, causing his limbs to shake. That a stranger—an intruder—that he should—that she would— 

A cry had torn from his throat without his bidding, fury surging through him as the last of his virtue crumpled before his eyes. He would have killed the stranger on the spot, if his father's blade had not been left behind in the hallway in deference to Lord Capulet. 

And now that he had the stranger's mask in his hand, an even more terrible sight:

"It's a Montague!" he roared, lunging forward, pure rage pounding in his veins. Oh, he would get him, if it was the last thing he would do, with his bare hands if not with the blade; he would slay and protect, as he was meant to; he would purge this stain, burn it away. 

"Romeo!"

The agony in her voice stopped him as nothing else could have done. He froze for a moment, only for a moment, but it was enough: the one whose name she had called slipped away from his grasp, brushed past a throng of onlookers, and was lost from Tybalt's sight.

Julia remained. She met his gaze, her eyes wide and her face flushed from the Montague's kisses. He recognised that look—he'd seen it before, once, not on the face of any purchased woman, but on the face of a boy who had been his friend. In horrible dreams, he had seen it on Julia's. 

But she was not wearing that look for him; not for Tybalt, the pink of her cheeks or the wetness of her mouth. For Tybalt, there was only the anger slowly dawning on her features—

"Tybalt," she said, an accusing plea, and he realised that she would not thank him, that sin had found her and she would throw herself willingly in its arms. 

He turned away, pressing a hand to his brow, his unclear gaze fixed on one of the fires lighting the hall. It was not her fault, he told himself as he staggered towards it, no matter what would happen next. It was not her fault, any of it.


End file.
